Steel, Fire, and Magicka: Uprising
by Ahan1899
Summary: In the year 102 of the 5th Era, the stability of Third Aldmeri Dominion has once more threatened by the recent rebellion perpetrated by Jarl Bjeld Free-Winter of Windhelm. Meanwhile, twin novice Khajiit inspectors in Whiterun solve a mystery of an infamous serial murder case, which has then expanded into a much broader scheme; a scheme that might change Skyrim once and for all.
1. Chapter 1

**Steel, Fire, and Magicka: Uprising**

 _An_ _Elder Scrolls Fanfiction_

Ahan1899

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Disclaimer:

To be frank, I'm not really good with these legal statement thingies. But, as everyone has acknowledged, The Elder Scrolls series and all the materials included belong to Bethesda Game Studios. Some of lore elements are used for the sake of plot and/or storyline development, with additional lore fabricated by myself.

A note worth mentioning:

The story sets in the Fifth Era (5E), year a hundred and two (102)--a hundred and fifty years after the Dragon Crisis, and a hundred and two years since the Empire's downfall. It was the time when Third Aldmeri Dominion have almost whole Tamriel under their wing, with only Black Marsh remains a free province. It's the era when technology advances rapidly, and firearms and explosives has already invented (including brand new vocabularies of swear words and profanity, haha). Imagine the Fifth Era of Tamriel as the 17th century of our world. Take note that Skyrim has changed a lot over the course of time. Some villages has turned into towns, and some cities has grown even larger than before. Enjoy the story.

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 _Chapter One_

~v~

Just as Alvynd was going to shut his keen, brown eyes, an old man hit the back of his helmet with his musket's buttstock. Despite the weak force, however, Alvynd couldn't help but to bounce forward and open his eyes wide to recover his balance. It needed a lot of work to put his body back straight. Although his standard issued iron vest beneath his robe wasn't that heavy, the backpack he was carrying was truly burdensome. Among the other soldiers, he was the one who carried the most. Need to carry tent, ammunitions, grenades, and additional muskets? Alvynd can handle it, they would say. Of course, the young Nord didn't think the same way they did. For him, his job murdered his shoulders worse than his dignity.

After a successful attempt to regain his balance, he growled, "What the fuck was that?" he said as he rubbed the back of his helmet. His backpack rattled and clanked.

The old man pulled a smirk over his harsh, scarred lips. A slip of his bleached hair peeped out from beneath his helmet. Fred was the name he called himself. "I was just trying to help," he said. His appearance looked as old as the musket he was carrying on his hand. Rusty, dirty, rough, and ugly. At least, that was what Alvynd could perceive.

"That was helpful," Alvynd said, keeping his face sour.

"Okay, easy. I just can't afford to let you pass out with all of essential goods strapped on your back."

"I can sleep-walk," the young man mumbled.

"Yeah, right. Should've let you 'sleep-walk' to that bear-ridden cave over there," he said, indicating a cave not far from the road. "Now, let's keep up. They're gonna leave us behind and they won't care."

With a sigh, he then took a constant pace next to a wagon at the third row from the convoy's tail. Its condition was far from convenient. The rider had his most upper-half body wrapped in crude, blood-soaked dressings. The wheels were terribly cracked, with dozens of arrows stuck on their rims. And the horse, while virtually walk elegantly as if it had no issues, was actually injured. Pretty badly, in fact. Nothing was covering its open wound on its left thigh, nor on its neck. Blood were dripping down slowly from the wounds, and even more slowly, while they were freezing under the skin-biting breeze of the night of the Rift Hold. Another fifteen carriages had faced the same fate, but the last three of the convoy suffered the worst.

Boarding the wagon were civilians--refugees, to be precise--on their long way to the Town of Ivarstead. A siege had been laid upon the City of Riften by army of five thousand men led by Lillia Raven-Songs, by the order from Jarl Bjeld Free-Winter of Windhelm. His action had been considered a treachery and straightforwardly had declared war against the Dominion.

Some of them were still grieving over their losses--their homes, their fortunes, and in their worst case, their families. Alvynd felt sorry for them, but he wouldn't feel the same to himself, as his family was safe and sound in his hometown, Ivarstead. Thus, it made the term "refuging" unfitting to his current situation. It was "homecoming" that was more fitting.

"Did I accidentally screw up your head, lad?" Fred blurted after noticing a peculiar smile on Alvynd's face.

"What? No," he replied. "It's just ... I miss my home."

"Ah, I see. Going home, aren't ya? Good for you."

"Thanks," Alvynd thanked him. "How about you?"

"How about me?"

"I mean, how do you feel ... about the attack?"

"Well ... Ain't got nothing to lose," Fred shrugged.

Alvynd smiled. "Heh, that's a relief."

The old man hung his head. "Can't say the same to these folks," Fred asserted. "It's a miracle we could get past that cordon."

Indeed, it was a miracle. Well, mostly. A small part of it had been some witty tricks and precise strategy.

The first catapults hail from all directions which had caused a significant collateral damage to the outer ring of the city had become an ultimate warning. But, Jarl Jayek the Fearless had kept on steadfast, and ignored the serious threat from his enemies. He was brave and confident, but his ignorance had nullified their value. Thinking that the city could sustain months of siege, he had commanded the garrison to hold the city at all cost. His counselor didn't object, but he also advised him to summon reinforcements from Ivarstead.

Two hundred well equipped and well defended men against five thousand sword-and-bow-wielding men might've been worked, given the defender's advantages. But the risk was also high. With additional power from Thalmor troops, his counselor would've been much more confident that they could withstand the siege and repell the attackers. But, you can guess what the Jarl had said. He had refused, saying, "We can take care of this. There's no need to make a fuss, for this is personal."

The next day, knowing that the city had refused to surrender, the assailants commenced another attack. That time, they had managed to break through the eastern flank of the city--the side that had the fewest artillery, thus, the most vulnerable--and killed countless citizens on their way in, before it got put to a stop later in the afternoon. The garrison commander had then advised an immediate surrender, which had been refused even before the commander could pull his tongue.

Knowing this, some soldiers had suggested a mutiny. But, they also realized how preposterous the idea was and threw it as far away as possible. Instead, they had planned to leave the city clandestinely.

Later at the midnight, a handful of soldiers secretly had gathered up a hundred and twenty civilians--mostly comprised of their families and relatives. The soldiers who had involved in the act had many connections they had made use of, and managed to gather resources to break through the besieger's line, including wagons, additional firearms, shields, and surpluses. Initially, the plan had gone very smoothly. They had gone past the southwest gate with an aid from the gatekeeper, and they faced no threat on their way out. They had moved in high speed, under the shroud of the darkness of the starless night.

But a trouble had come to their sight as they had gone closer to the besieger's camp. The road had been blocked by chevaux-de-frise, some spike traps to prevent horses to pass by. Moreover, the opponent forces had been alarmed as the convoy had approached. It had been, however, anticipated. The forwardmost wagon had carried crates of grenades. Without stopping, they had hurled grenades to the said spike lines, and had successfully blown them up and cleared the path. This hadn't gone unnoticed as the explosion had attracted attention from both sides. Immediately after, the convoy had been barraged by volleys of invisible arrows from left and right. Shields had been raised, covering the sides of the wagons.

They had returned fire with all the firepower available, and suddenly, the bitter silence of the night had been shattered by thundering crackles and booms from their firearms and grenades, accompanied by screams and shouts from civilians and combatans. They'd been blind at the time, with no light sources from anywhere but the bright flashes from their guns. They'd been literally shooting in the dark. After a seemingly endless five minutes, the volleys had finally stopped after they had made it to the forest, and the night had become still once more. All the sound that had remained had been the unbearable ringing sounds in their ears and cicadas singing between the bushes. The air had been thick with the strong, sharp smell of burnt up firepowder. The break out had costed numerous casualties, both the soldiers and civilians; either injured or deceased. And in addition, three wagons carrying supplies didn't make it. They even had to drop off some corpses from the wagons, to prevent them slowing down. It wasn't a commendable deed, neither an easy one to commit, but, still, it had to be done.

"What do you think they're going to do to us?" Alvynd asked. "For abandoning the rest of us back there?"

"Guess we'll be fine."

"How's that?"

"We tell them what happened. I'm sure they'll be grateful."

"But, we _left_ them," Alvynd insisted.

"Well, the worst case is they'll hang us for treason," Fred chuckled. Alvynd said nothing but glaring at him in a disgusted visage. The old man, noticing his gaze, needed a moment to continue.

"Look at it this way: we didn't abandon no one; we only saved dozens of innocent people from their certain demise."

Alvynd took a moment to think thoroughly. "Understood," he then replied half-heartedly. He didn't fully agree, but what else he could say? He also feared the death as much as the others.

~vVv~

If you have something in mind, please post it in the review section. Or if you like it quiet, send a PM to me.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

~v~

The Headsman. The name that would bleak anyone who was unfortunate enough for ever had heard of it. Even calling his name was considered a bad omen--the worst--and impending doom was certain for anyone who had ridiculed his name. A cleaver. That would be the last thing they'd ever seen, before the monster swings it to his victims' throat without a slight of reluctance. He would leave only a headless carcass of his prey, with a guarantee that their head would be nowhere to be found, as if they vanish from the plane of existence. Only few who survived--or so, they claimed to be--could ever tell a tiny bit of their tales regarding his rampage. Some said he only lingers to women, who had been disobedient in their daily life as a wife; and men, who had been despiseful toward their wife, and had wronged them horribly. Other sources said, he had been a war veteran once, who still hold his vengeful soul, and was strongly against the Mer kind, or any person who supported their cause.

Narcius smiled over this. All of the hearsay that circulated in the city, in a very impressive way, sounded like a beautiful lullaby to him. They didn't actually know what they were fussing about, not a single idea. They were speculating, guessing, and fabricating their own tales that might sell in the public. And that was beautiful, according to him. He was smoking the last drag of his Redoran Jurak cigarette at the corner of the street, gazing his careful eyes toward the crowds for his next prey.

"G'day, sir" a sudden voice came from his right. He swung his eyes toward a pair of Khajiits who were already standing next to him. One of them was a male with scruffy brown fur, clad in a black coat that seemingly held a fair price in the market. Another one was a female, who shared the same features and apparel from her male companion. Their eyes were sharp golden yellow, exactly identical each other. The only differences were the humps on the female's chest, her medium-long crude hair on her scalp, and a slightly shorter height of her compared to the male one. "Mind if I ask you a question?" the male Khajiit continued. His voice was a unique one. While his voice preserved the typical feature of his kin, his punctuation indicated some of the Colovian features.

"Sure thing, pal," Narcius replied. His cigar still loosely stuck between his lips. "Shoot."

"I presume, you're the one they call Narcius Varad?"

The Imperial went silent for a moment. Combing his hair with his digits to make his angst less obvious, he said, "Correct."

"Well," the male Khajiit turned to his companion, before going back to Narcius. "Sadly, I have to apprehend you and take you to the custody."

Narcius chuckled in short. "What for, smoking in the public?"

The Khajiit blinked, nodding. "That is one reason."

"And another one?"

The Khajiit carved an odd smirk over his face. "Another five," he corrected.

Narcius was miffed then. "Oh, I know where this is going," he said, dropping his half-burnt cigar to the ground, before stomping on it in a harsh manner. "I'm sure one of them is 'to be a living Cyrodiil'. Right, faux-elf bastard?"

The last phrase was an impulsive one. Though, he was satisfied by his spontaneous byword. The male Khajiit struck him with his eyes and Narcius was prepared for anything. But the thing that caught him off guard was the cat's wheezing laughter. It went on for a few second. "'Faux-elf'," he said as the laughter were getting fainter. "It pierces me. Your kin sure have a sharp tongue."

"Masha!" his female companion nudged on his elbow.

He sighed, before blowing a throat-clearing cough. "We've found out about your crimes. You'd best cooperate and comply, lest the situation gets worse."

Narcius knew things were going to get messy. He put his best effort to look as intimidating as possible, started with a sinister gaze toward the Khajiit. "Pal, I'm not going anywhere," he shook his head gently.

"Then I have to do it hard--".

In an instant, the Imperial lashed his right arm toward the cat and a light green spark was cast from his palm. The Khajiit was thrown for nearly ten feet from the force. The female then grasped the hilt of her Akaviri short blade on her left hip, only to face the same fate as her partner. She hit a lamp post behind her, so hard that it tilted a slight. With a quick dash, Narcius attempted to escape the crowd's attention that had been redirected toward the ruckus, before going out of sight to a narrow alleyway.

The two cats coughed violently. So violent that they resembled barking dogs. "That was ... unexpected," the male cat coughed further, "but not bad."

"Yes ..." the female one managed. "The potion did work."

Narcius scurried as fast as he could, traversing the maze-like passages of the downton of Whiterun City and slamming onto numerous trash bins and hanged dirty laundries that had stood in his way. Unlike the uptown part of the city, the place was filthy and awful. It was damp, hot, and gloomy. Most people would turn around as they reached their first twenty steps, due to the un-Nirn-ly odor from the poorly managed gutters and sewer system. There were chunks of dump condensed in some corners of the pathway that blocked the sewage; thus, spawning some disgusting brown water puddles to their surroundings. For a seemingly pathetic, lifeless place, it actually had a small population of paupers, drunks, and thugs. Fortunately, Narcius faced none of them, making the escape way easier for him.

A glimmer of hope was just up ahead as he was heading to a bustling street up front. To his surprise, an Altmer police popped out of the corner and blocked his way out. He jerked to the right, trying to give her the slip. The path lead to a sharp turn to the right. But, unfortunately for him, it only lead to a tall building made of solid bricks; a dead end. With his heart climbing onto his throat, he desperately turned around. The Khajiiti twins were already there.

"There is no point to run," the female said. "For the Eight would scourge this man for his irredeemable sins."

"No," the Imperial whimpered.

"They won't give him a path of salvation. For his heart has turned solid as a rock."

"Back off!" Narcius bellowed, pulling his signature cleaver from beneath his vest.

Jo'masha raised his left hand. Curiously, the cleaver Narcius had been holding was then floating in the air, and later, landed on the Khajiit's palm. Playfully flipping the cleaver in the air, Jo'masha took slow steps forward. "First violation: smoking in the public area. Punishable by a week in the prison."

"Stay away from me!" the Imperial stepped aback.

"Second violation: possession of a contraband product ... six months in prison," the female added.

"I said stay back!" he mewled again.

"Third: assault on two police officers," Jo'masha said. "Two years each."

"Back off!"

"Fourth: attempt to escape from custody. A year," his partner complemented.

"Please--" he begged. Everything was blurry in his vision.

"Fifth: possession of unsanctioned magic as neither a Mer nor a Khajiiti. Up to ten years of sentence," Jo'masha was getting closer to the man.

"I'm sorry ..." Narcius huffed involuntarily as his spine slammed onto the wall.

"And the last," both of the twins said.

"Murder of seven innocent people, for the sake of self-pleasure," Jo'masha delivered his final judgement. He then, slowly, shifted his head next to Narcius'. At that very moment, the man was ice-cold and trembling. His body felt as if it was paralysed, and sweats were flowing rapidly down his skin.

With a soft spoken voice, the Khajiit whispered, "And how would you redeem yourself?"

"I ... I'm--"

But, it was too late for the man to apologise. His body suddenly went rock solid. The man fell, face-down to the wet ground. Alas, that was the end of The Headsman, a spectre that had haunted Whiterun for over two years. Townsmen could rest peacefully, without bringing any fear to their sleep. But the echoes of his name would last for a long time.

"Huh, that's a relief," the woman blurted out.

"What is?" asked Jo'masha.

"Rhika thought Masha was going to kill him."

Jo'masha gave her a funny look. "What do you think of a monster I am?" he complained. "Besides, he's gonna get chopped for sure, and I'm still patient to wait for that to happen."

"Of course."

In a minute, a group of officers extracted Narcius away. He could be seen trying to rasp inaudible words from his stiffened lips. However, no one paid any attention. Jo'masha chuckled to a thought. "You know what's ironic? The Headsman is finally going to lose his own head."

"It's no good to make fun of someone's--"

"Can't you just shut up and pretend it's funny?" he cut in.

~v~

"Halt!"

An echoing shout followed by a long whistle could be heard from the front. At an instant, the whole convoy stopped right where they were standing. The refugees murmurs erupted by then, asking various concerning questions: "Why are we stopping?", "What is happening?", "Is it bandits?", "Is someone dying?"

"Hey," called a Breton who stopped by two rows in front of Alvynd's. "Captain has commanded us to build a camp here."

"Why?" Alvynd asked.

"Because she said so," the soldier scowled at Alvynd.

"I don't think that is a good idea."

"They'll catch up on us if we stop," Fred added, being supportive to the young Nord.

The man opened his mouth to spit some more words, but then was closing immediately. "You know what? I don't have time for this," he then said, licking his lips. "Why don't you try to speak to her yourself?"

They both agreed. Walking toward the head of the convoy, Alvynd assessed his surrounding.

They had travelled restless for about five hours. Right then, from the opening of the forest roof, he could see the sky had partially lost its indigo nuances, and gradually shifted to the lighter hue. A little bit of radiant salmon smudge were visible near the horizon, between the scarce tree arangements up ahead. Some stars had showed themselves shamelessly, while some others shyly hid behind the thin layers of clouds. The stone road was well maintained, though there were some green fungal sprouts at the edges between the crude rock pavements. It was slippy, but the boots helped him to stay firm on the ground.

A group consisted of a refugee and some soldiers were seen forming a circle next to the fourth wagon, apparently discussing an interesting topic. Alvynd tried to identify them. A Breton with brown fur vest on top of his white shirt, and white stockings beneath the square-toed shoes was one of the cab riders. On his left were three soldiers. They looked familiar, but he wasn't so sure about their names. They wore the same fur robes as he did, but don the different kinds of helmets. One of them wore the kettle steel helmet, similar to Alvynd's, and the two others wore egg-shaped ones. The last one was a female Bosmer. A glimmer of green translucent shade was reflected from her glass chestplate under her glossy, well crafted leather robe. Winged golden helmet covered her scalp, but her pointy ears went on for another few inches. As she noticed Alvynd and Fred's presence, the conversation was temporarily suspended.

"Private Gray-Mane. Corporal Wulfred," she greeted them warmly. Although, it sounded like a normal, formal greeting, Alvynd could perceive the subliminal meaning behind it. She questioned their specific purpose for ruining their important discussion, and demanded a quick explanation.

Still, Alvynd was flustered. "Captain Sunblossom," he said. Foolishly, he didn't speak any further after calling her name, neither did Fred. He was just standing there without any words.

An awkward silence was innevitable as the two party had no initiative to start a conversation. That was because Alvynd was the one who needed to do so. The Bosmer's olive green eyes travelled the young Nord from head to toe. "Private Gray-Mane," she said it again, with more punctuation.

"Captain Sun--"

"Say what you want or leave," she cut the Nord, still conserving her gentle tone. The trio soldiers could be heard suppressing their mischievous giggles, while Alvynd was getting more and more helpless.

Couldn't bear it anymore, Fred decided to intervene. "This lad over here wants to file a protest about your command to stop our trek and build a camp here."

Alvynd was flabbergasted. He didn't expect the outright explanation from the old man.

"Is that so?" the captain spoke lowly. Alvynd nodded helplessly. "Any good reason why we shouldn't do that?"

"As for me," Fred began, "I'm afraid the enemy forces might catch up if we decide to stop."

"I have made that decision," Sunblossom stated, "and I understand your concern. But with five wagons lost, including our three supply wagons, we only have one more left in our inventory. That is barely sufficient to satisfy eighty-two mouths for the next two days trip."

"I'm sure we can endure the starve, rather than getting mauled to pieces," Fred exagerrated.

"We can't, Corporal. Well, at least most of the men can. But think of the fragile ones. The kids, the women? They won't make it."

The old man frowned, accepting his defeat over the arguments. "Very well. Now that we've stopped, are we going to face them toe-to-toe?"

"We don't know for sure if they're after us," the Breton cab rider said. "Chances are they let us go so we can spread the terror, or to hunt us down to keep it silent."

"There must be something we can do about it," Alvynd blurted out. It was a stupid assertion. Not wrong, but still stupid.

Another awkward silence, with all eyes pointed toward the young Nord. "Sometimes, it'd be best to keep your mouth shut, Private Gray-Mane," Blossom admitted.

"... I apologise."

The captain sighed. "But now that you're here ... Mister Pommel," she called the cab rider.

Pommel nodded. "We planned to make some gatherer parties. One hunting party and two foraging parties," he explained. "Two men of hunting party will hunt some games nearby, be it deers, goats, mudcrabs, bears ... hell, anything that is edible; while two men of each foraging party will gather some water, fruits, and herbs. We need herbs, most importantly. Got some lads dying over here," he jabbed his thumb to a wagon behind him, where the moaning sounds were originated.

"What if they decided to go after us?Those ... rebels?" Fred questioned. He was pretty sure "rebels" was a correct term.

"We'll set a due time for the gatherers," Blossom delivered. "Three hours. It's short, but enough to gather all the resources necessary."

"What if the parties surpassed it?" one soldier asked.

"We'll have to leave them behind."

All men considered her plan. It was the most reasonable and rational thing to do. Should the parties were left behind, they could at least continue on their own to Ivarstead. That would be the case if the rebels weren't going to catch up. "Sounds like a good plan," Fred commented.

~vVv~


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

~v~

Firearm was another proof of elven superiority, or so they had claimed. Following its extensive use in The Great Revolt, it had been a standard issued arms for every low ranked Men grunts. It was aimed to be a substitute for destruction magic, and yet, it still packed quite a powerful punch. With firepowder as its propellant, a single tiny lead pellet could penetrate cleanly through a thick byrnie as if it was made of a thin silk. Its enormous firepower had convinced Dominion to subside the traditional bow with more powerful and advanced firearm.

However, even with all the admiration it had gained, the weapon itself also came with many drawbacks. The most complained issue was its safety. While firepowder offered a potent threat to opponents, there was also a chance for it to be harmful to its wielders. It wasn't a rare occurence where soldiers lost a chunk of their torso when they accidentally collided their ignited matchrope to firepowder in their pouches. A silly name had been coined to call the incident revolving missing limbs due to irresponsible behavior of its users: Clumsy Olaf. It was named after the first victim of this kind of incident.

The powder itself wasn't recently invented. Rather, it was a legacy of the long-lost race, the Dwemer. At the first few years after Dominion had overthrown the Empire, Tamriel had turned into an utter chaos once again. Instead of having immediate control over whole Tamriel, Dominion had to face imminent threats from regional resistances: Alik'r Warriors in Hammerfell, An-Xileel army from Black Marsh, Great Houses of Morrowind, and joint forces of the surviving, vengeful Stormcloak and Legion members in Skyrim. Thus, The Great Revolt had begun, only a couple of years since the end of The Second Great War. It'd been an all-side war, with all parties had fought against the tyranny of Aldmeri Dominion, but had also beaten each others by their own agendas.

Thalmor forces had been in dire need for more power to stop the chaos across the whole continent. It had seemed impossible--and indeed it'd been--for Dominion to prevail with their current state. But, one day, in a fierce battle against the rebel forces of Skyrim, a tremor had shook Velothi Mountain, crumbling the massive rocks and boulders on its canopies. The disaster had been an aid, nay, a miracle for Thalmor forces, as tons of crumbling rocks had happened to obliterate most of the rebel forces. But the miracle had been only a byproduct of an even more marvelous prodigy. An enormous unexplored Dwemer ruins had laid beneath the mountain. Two days later, an expedition team had been dispatched to explore the Lost Race's vestige, hopefully, to find something useful for their cause against the resistance. And their prayer had finally been answered, as they had made the Tamriel's greatest discovery. They had found an old schematic of an ancient experimental weapon, next to a formula of a "magical" substance that causes explosion once it made contact with fire. By further refining fire salt, they could make an even more powerful and volatile element than its original form. It was firepowder. A maroon-coloured dust of destruction.

"Watch your step," a harsh masculine voice warned. Alvynd snapped as Vehl clenched his right arm. It was a fortunate of him that Vehl was fast enough to act. He pulled the Nord from demise he'd almost seen, before falling to the ground from their momentum.

"Virgin Mara," the young Nord panted as he stared down the long steep slide. "I ... I don't even know what to say ..."

"A thank would suffice," the Dunmer said, lashing his shirt from dust and dirt.

Alvynd nodded. "Thank you."

Alvynd hadn't minded having civilians as his party companion. But the way he got saved by one of them hurt his pride a little.

Vehl answered with a nod. "Anytime. Now let's continue, shall we?"

The young Nord agreed, for an hour hunt was fruitless and there was no time to waste. Although, there were still two hours left before they should go back to the convoy, that was still concerning as, apparently, there were no chase on sight. All but shrubs surrounding some trees, with ocassional rocks could be seen scattered between weeds, and assortment of birch and oak trees grew on uneven terrain. The dense green leaves let some of warm, sunny rays pass through, rendering fringes of light as the morning haze passed by the breeze.

"Where you from, son?" the Dunmer asked. His eyes were still carefully scanning around the scene.

"Ivarstead," Alvynd answered short.

"Business's good there, I heard," Vehl said after hummed in affirmation. "There're still handful of pilgrim going for Seven Thousand Steps. It must've been a steady income for that gateway town."

"Huh, not really. Three-quarters of passage tariff goes to Dominion," Alvynd pointed out.

"You don't say? Those bastards," the Dunmer shook his head.

"It's not so bad, I'd say. Our town still do well, thanks to local merchants there," Alvynd defended.

Vehl chuckled. "Let us just see how long it would last."

The voice of nature took over once again. The warming springtide breeze squeezed through the trees, rustling the bushes and leaves on its way down the declivity. Alvynd could hear gurgles of a small runnel on his left, but no ravin could be seen anywhere. Birds chirps could be heard continuously, but the sources remained invisible.

"Why did you appoint yourself for hunting party?" Alvynd started a new topic.

"Why did you?" Vehl threw back.

Alvynd was startled. He didn't like the way the conversation had escalated. Still, he tried to calm down. "Well, because I'm good at it," he said, holding himself together.

"So am I," the Dunmer exhaled.

Alvynd clenched his teeth by then. "But you're no soldier," he said, glancing viciously at his companion.

"I don't remember one has to be a soldier to fire a gun."

Alvynd couldn't answer that one. Maybe he was the one being stupid after all. He breathed, "I'm sorry, I was an asshole."

"No harm done," Vehl scoffed. "If you're wondering, though, I was a hunter back then, far before I went to Mournhold to run some business."

"Mournhold?" Alvynd whistled. "Fancy place."

"Heh, Mournhold wasn't so bad," Vehl admitted. "I got steady income from selling goods over there. Then all of a sudden everything's gone."

"Well, what happened?"

"My greed," he said, unintentionally releasing a bitter chuckle. "I was an ambitious entrepreneur. Now I'm saying, does five thousand aris a month sounds appealing to you?"

"That is ... twenty times of my monthly wage," Alvynd muttered.

"Now you get it. Still, I didn't feel like I deserve that yield."

Alvynd hummed in consideration. Something was bothering his mind. "What is your trade, actually?"

"Skooma," Vehl answered. It tickled the Nord's law-abiding tendency, but before he could question the Dunmer statement further, Vehl cut in. "The legit ones, son. Now that was something I despise. With those damn taxes and regulation nonsenses."

Alvynd reconsidered it. "I see."

"I started to have some ... 'complementary trades', to compensate," Vehl explained. "I took a wrong step, and got my whole business taken down in one night. Then I heard words about Riften. A city of filthy riches, a paradise for dishonests, where people would stab each other's back for money. That sounded like a fine place for me. Then I decided to come, after serving five years of sentence. I was certain to start my business all over again, but then those bastards came out of nowhere and ruined everything."

Alvynd went quiet for a second. "I'm not sure if I should be grateful."

"Suit yourself. I've lost everything," Vehl said.

"Fair enough," Alvynd scoffed.

The grunt and the merchant crouched down in a brisk impulse as a figure of a quadruped critter could be seen standing in a runnel, about sixty feet from their stands. It was hanging its head down, licking frivolously on the calm stream.

"Sweet Azura. A stag," Vehl whispered. "A stout one, too."

"Got some plans, Mister Poacher?" Alvynd nudged. Vehl only responded with a sour expression.

The Dunmer swung his eyes in a frantic manner, as if he was tracking an incredibly fast moving object in front of him. But what he really did was plotting a plan, all in only a few seconds. "Wait here 'till I get to position," said he, raising his right arm, before some strings of light slithered from his palm, crawling to his feet. Then, he moved. Alvynd could swear he heard nothing as the Dunmer crawled across the grass field, not even a slightest rustle. The Nord shrugged it off and redirected his view to the stag. It was still drinking from the stream, without flinching any of its ears.

When Vehl had reached his position between some dense bushes, he raised a "V" sign with his fingers, before aiming his musket toward the stag. Alvynd perceived the sign as their shots order. He would shoot first, and should he miss and the stag make the run, Vehl would fire another shot to finish it. He answered by pointing his index finger to the air. Vehl gave him a thumb up. The Nord then pulled a cartridge from his pouch, tore it with his teeth, filled the pan with a quarter of its propellant, stuffed it into the barrel, rammed it, and then fixed a lit match rope to the serpentine. Everything were in order, all according to drill his instructors had taught him. He crouched, resting the musket's barrel between a branch of a dead birch tree. His right index finger on the trigger, and his left palm holding the rear part of the buttstock. With a quiet blow, he kindled the little ember on the rope, and the musket was ready to be fired.

Vehl could be seen raising another "V" sign, looking agitated and uneased. Alvynd pulled a breath, steadying his heartbeat and holding his gun in place. Tiny iron tip at the end of the barrel was pointed up to the stag. He was sure he could make the shot. Slowly, he contracted his finger, and the tinder was getting closer to the pan. At the time, the stag's primal instinct finally sensed something peculiar, that someone was observing. It raised its head, turning left and right, before going to scuttle out from the stream. But the tinder had already touched the primer, and a burst of flame came out from the barrel, instantly followed by an ear-shuddering bang. Everything went in a blink of an eye and were too fast to be observed. The stag was suddenly stumbled down and went spasmic after that. Apparently, Alvynd's shot had successfully landed on its neck.

Both men ran to the fallen stag. "Nice shot, soldier boy!" Vehl's cheer echoed. Their hunt was a successful one.

~v~

Rhika took another sip of her thick, hot beverage people called a _coffee_. It was her favourite. The sharp taste of xhithr coffee might not be welcomed by most tongues, but she had her own way to enjoy it. If only one could ignore its bitter tang, but savour on its spicy, earthy flavour, they would certainly fall in love with it. She also had asked the inn keeper to add some sprinkles of moon sugar in it. She could feel the soothing liquid ran down her throat, cleaning all the sticking muck on its walls. A thin fume came out of her mouth as she sighed out of her gusto. "This is the best," she said.

"Careful, sister. There might be poison in it," her brother bantered. "You don't know what these reptiles are planning."

"That was rude," Rhika said. "Why does Masha always rude to everyone?"

"They were our enemies, sister."

"They were. But now they are nice to people."

"You can't trust anyone who had tried to wreck yourself in the past," Jo'masha chugged his tankard of ale. It was his third one. "You don't know if they're going for another run."

"When, ninety-two years ago? Had Masha even been born yet?"

"No. But I know--"

"Then it is settled," Rhika cut in. "Masha has no idea of what he is talking about."

Jo'masha groaned. "Fine, fine. Chug it down to the cup, you pussy."

And so she did. A small joy was sparkling inside her. Not often did she win an argument with her brother. Most of the time, an argument would end up with the twins don't talk with each others for a whole week.

The Little Bean was indeed owned by an Argonian family. It was one of the most popular places in Astridia District. Patrons were keep flowing in and out, so that there wouldn't be a seat available for unfortunate ones. The meals and beverages there were also foreign to Skyrim. Most people came there to taste the exotic flavour of Argonia. The sweet-sour leeli cake, the sparkling handa root beer, the spicy jeele fried maize, and the strong chtiqi wine were the most favourited ones.

They managed to preserve the strong Argonian culture in it, despite the pressure from authority. From the outside, the inn looked alien compared to other buildings next to it. The two story building looked like an inverted bucket, with windows scattered on its surface.

"Like ruling their own land isn't enough ..." Jo'masha muttered. His chin was rested on his palm, glaring at an inn keeper at the bar. As their eyes met, the female Argonian flinched and scurried away from his sight.

"Masha is still mad?" Rhika was irritated by then. Jo'masha kept on mumbling jibberishly. "If he is mad, why did he come with Rhika?"

He stopped mumbling. "Because Divines know what would happen if I leave you by yourself," her brother replied.

Rhika bounced back, frowning. "What is that supposed to mean?" she questioned.

"Forget it," Jo'masha steered out. "Narcius case still gives me a terrible headache," he said.

Rhika took a moment to calm herself down. "Look ... The case has been solved already," she tilted her head, swaying around her crude, chocolate hair. "Or is it because of Captain? Rhika was very sure Masha could take it, couldn't he?"

Jo'masha groaned further, now sinking his head between his folded arms on the table. He didn't need to get reminded for it. Indeed, they had solved the case, but their deed hadn't been welcomed well by their intendant. He had said that their job had been a messy one, stating that the chase and all the ruckus hadn't been necessary at all. It could've been done with a swift apprehension. His intendant had blamed his bigmouth as the cause.

"Brother, do grow up. He acts like a child," Rhika sneered.

"Huh, psychopath," he rose his head. "You don't feel a thing about it, do you?"

"Because it was not Rhika's fault. It was Masha's," she asserted. "Also, he is drunk. Stop drinking that," she said, clasping his hand as he was going to chug again.

The inn was noisy, close to chaotic. At the corner, a Nord bard was singing a stanza of Dragonborn's tale. But he--but some sources said it was a "she"--the Dragonborn, was no hero. The saga sang himself as a notorious criminal, who had committed countless vile deeds. Assassinations, thieveries, and black magic were a familiar picture for a Dragonborn. Some patrons were in a middle of a nasty fight, surrounded by another ones who were shouting and screaming as spectators. Everyone spoke aloud, it was impossible to hear a casual conversation.

Jo'masha finally managed to restrain himself. "Fine," he said, slamming his tankard on the table. He laid back to his chair and crossed his arms. "I hate this place."

"So does Rhika," she lied. "Rhika is willing to leave if Masha wants to."

~v~

The street was a paved ground with sidlewalks on both sides. Curved lamp posts were planted on a constant distance between each others and were currently unlit. In the morning, the street was busy as always. Stagecoaches were passing by carelessly, with their horses clacking their shoes on the road. At the sidewalks, pedestrians were on their own businesses. Some of them were going to the plaza, a place for people to satisfy their daily needs, ranging from foods to hardwares. Merchants were shouting around to attract their potential customers, though only few would come to their booth. The Little Bean was at the corner of the square.

Rhika exhaled in a fake relief. "Finally, fresh air!" she cheered.

"Yeah, glad to finally leave that shithole," Jo'masha said. He turned to a big clock on a tall tower in the middle of the square. It showed twenty past nine. "Let's get back to station."

"Sure," his sister answered.

The station wasn't too far. They only needed to walk their way to north, then after two blocks, the station was on their left.

A moment later, they were already in front of it. The tall building was shaped an ordinary square, without any distinctive feature except for a big emblem above the entrance. It was a bronze shield plate, with a wolf's head engraved on it, clenching its teeth as if it was engulfed in rage. Jo'masha pressed his way inside through a chocolate double door at the front of the building. Surprisingly, there were no more than ten people in the lobby, unlike last month when the lobby was overwhelmed by crowds of people, both victims and criminals. Crime rate had been lowered since the new captain was appointed.

"Back already, Jo'masha?" a Nord officer at the front desk greeted. He was working on a paper Jo'masha wouldn't bother to know.

"Yes. Turned out the place was awful," he complained. "I should never have trusted this lass," he continued, glancing at his sister. She remained passive toward the statement.

"Told you so," the Nord smirked. "By the way, Captain Iril asked you two to meet him again as soon as possible."

"Now what is it?" Jo'masha released an irritated sigh.

"Go see him and you'll know."

~vVv~

 ** _End of chapter three. If you have some thoughts, go ahead and put them down the review section._**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

~v~

"Here goes nothing," Jo'masha released his last gust. With a subtle tremor under his skin, he clenched his gloved hand before rapping the door in a short burst.

"Come in," a muffled voice from the inside of the room allowed.

The twins pressed their way into their captain's office. As always, Captain Iril was behind his old pine desk, scribbling unsignificant doodles with his hawk feather quill. His face was in between two of dozen towering piles of untended papers. "Reporting in, sir," Jo'masha said.

Captain Iril took a moment until he finally decided to quit scribbling and put his quill on a small rag at the corner. He rose his long-faced head, travelling his narrow amber eyes on the Khajiits. He licked his lips, before saying, "First of all, I feel like it is necessary for me to apologise for our previous encounter. I was too harsh."

"We didn't mind much, sir," Jo'masha lied.

"Good for you," the captain nodded. "Now let's cut to the chase." The buffet of the old desk gritted as he shifted it out to take a leather dossier inside. Captain Iril casted it on his desk. "Open it," he commanded.

After several glances exchange, Rhika embraced herself to open it. As soon as she could see what was on the paper, she furrowed in a peculiar disapproval.

"... A sensual picture?"

As quick as a cliffracer in mating season, Jo'masha craned his head to see what it was. A picture of a young braided Nord woman, drawn with pencil--and was wholly dressless. He wished to see more of it, but before he could study the detail, Captain Iril already had the picture in his grasp.

"You saw nothing," he said in a blunt tone, folding the paper and putting it into his pocket.

"Yes, sir," both of the Khajiit replied, somewhat unsynchronized.

"Read the note," the Altmer said, indicating a small note in the dossier. It was a papyrus paper, now browned from humidity, and its corners suffered the worst. On it was a short message written with black ink:

~

Burn this letter as soon as you've done reading.

Come with this letter is a paralysation spell tome, per your request. Use wisely.

-C

~

"Scene investigation group found this in Narcius' basement, along with all seven decayed victims' heads. They estimated it to be two and a half years old. Possibly, he had received it before day one."

Foolish Cyrodiil, Jo'masha thought. From then, he knew Narcius hadn't been a lunatic lone wolf after all. Someone had been pulling the strings, orchestrating the whole case with him as the culprit. "He's not the main suspect," he guessed.

"He isn't," Captain Iril repeated. "As for the victims, do you have any idea who they were?"

"One that I know for sure was Leftenant Mortred, sir," Jo'masha admitted. Leftenant Mortred had been a police officer in Rosa District. She'd been found dead in similar condition with the others: headless and left without any piece of cloth left on her body. However, forensic had found out there'd been no proof of sexual harrassment. She'd been believed to had caught Narcius in the act, which subsequently had turned her into a high priority target.

"The other six, as far as I had known, were mere civilians: Velik the Poacher, Sigrid Sword-Shiver, Seld Battle-Born, Bryn Shatter-Shield, Gindir Gray-Mane, and Jelda the Singer. All of them were Nords, except for Leftenant Mortred, as she was a bona fide Breton."

Captain Iril hummed thoughtfully. "Almost precisely."

"Pardon, sir?" Jo'masha demanded.

"This might surprise you," Captai Iril offered. "But after further investigation by scene investigation group, turns out three of those six Nords were key members of Snowhounds; the personal bodyguards of the High King. Sigrid, Velik, and Gindir had been in an undercover mission the day they'd been murdered."

Of course, it did surprise the cats. "You mean ... Narcius--"

"... may be involved in a conspiracy against the High King of Skyrim." He breathed. "But, of course, that is just a hypothesis."

"Why would he do that?" Rhika decided to speak. "At first ... we ..." she hesitated, forcing herself to spell the pronoun she despised the most. "We thought it was his murderous tendency."

"We're not sure. What all we do know is that High King Asbjard isn't safe anymore here in Whiterun."

Jo'masha had a heavy thought inside his head. "What do we do now, sir?"

"That is what I am going to discuss," he stated. "You are to investigate it further."

The twins glanced at each others. "Why us?" Jo'masha asked.

"Because you are the youngest and most 'innocent' of all the inspectors in Astridia District. I trust you both for this," he said. "But, this would be an unauthorized investigation. I cannot risk to legally approve you for this, but I promise, I'll try to give you any assistance you need."

Jo'masha was drowned in his deep thoughts. This was too much for them; a pair of novice inspectors who had only solved a single murder case--and it might've been a pure luck. It was the time for him to make the decision, whether or not he was up to it.

"I think it'd be best to let Bureau do their job--"

Captain Iril cut in. His tone was an unpleasant one. "The reason I summoned you here is because of my skepticism against them. In fact, I suspect them to have something to do with this bedlam."

Jo'masha blinked. "What?" was the only word he could manage.

"They had recommended you both to investigate Narcius' case, a horribly difficult case for you rookies, as soon as Leftenant's body was discovered. That was odd, because before her death, Bureau insisted to investigate Narcius' case by their own. I repeatedly refused their demand, and was going to deploy Inspector Erik and Inspector Nirin instead. But, hell, were they persistent bunch of pricks. You see these papers?" Captain Iril waved his hands toward piles of the untended papers on his desk. "These are their proposal messages! I'd fed up with it and bitterly deployed you two to investigate, hoping these papers would stop getting slipped under my door. I had lost my hope back then. But, beyond my wildest imagination, you both somehow could solve the case!"

What?

How?

Jo'masha was full of questions. Do Thalmor Bureau of Justice have something to do with this? Did they already predicted the two would solve the case?

He couldn't stop thinking why would anyone hate a perfect leader like High King Asbjard. Despite his Nordic bloodline, he was respected by everyone; from the superior race that is Altmer, to the lowest but proud race of all, Cyrodiil; from the majestic stone city, Markarth, to the rich, yet a corrupt city, Riften.

All the heavy ideas nauseated him, and everything felt spinning in his head. "We understand," Jo'masha said, breaking the short silence. He forced himself to say that. At the time, he remembered what they had taught him for: to serve the queen and the Dominion until his death. He wasn't expected to bail out. He would shame himself if he did so. "Where should we start?"

"Start by digging as much as possible from Narcius," Captain Iril answered. "Ask him who the hell is 'C'."

"Yes, sir," both twin said.

"Dismissed." The two saluted and walked away for the door.

"And, inspectors..." Captain Iril delivered. Jo'masha and Rhika stopped by the door step. "I only asked you to find the main suspect. Take a mental note on that."

~vVv~


End file.
